


Good Things to Bad People

by apollos



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Use, Goth Stan, Jersey Kyle, M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6109102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollos/pseuds/apollos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Christmas Eve, Kyley B meets a sad boy at Club Karma and brings him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Things to Bad People

Karma was dead as fuck for a Friday night, but maybe that was because it was 11 PM on Christmas Eve. Kyley B, who held his Judaism close to his heart in a town full of Italian Catholics, didn't care. He didn't care that nobody had even fucking bothered to respond to his texts. Not even Cartman, who was usually starved for attention and down for the most dangerous and stupid things.

Kyley was determined to get fucked up, a baggie of coke in his pocket and crisp hundred-dollar bills in his wallet, and he was determined to do so thoroughly. He burst through the doors of Karma and headed to the bathroom to do the coke. At least it would serve to dull the music, which was abrasively loud without enough people in the club to muffle it out.

Nose twitching, Kyley left the bathroom and went to the bar. There was a girl there; she introduced herself as " _B.B_., like the gun," even though her friend, sitting beside her, kept calling her _Bebe_ , pronounced bay-bay, like the body of water. Kyley brought them both a drink, then one for himself, and started to hit on B.B./Bebe before her friend dragged her away for some reason that didn't get past Kyle's coked-up haze. Nonplussed, he threw back the rest of his drink and leaned against the bar, scanning the crowd for somebody else interesting.

That was when he saw _him_ : tall and so pale he seemed to be glowing in the dark. He was wearing a beanie pulled down over pierced ears and all black, his clothes clinging to his anemic frame, shirt so tight his nipples shined through like cut diamonds. Something about the way he held himself indicate an outsider, and Kyley felt suddenly sympathetic, pierced to his core and weak in the knees. He ordered another set of drinks and walked over to the guy, liquor in his hands like an offering.

"No thanks," the guy said, too quiet for the club, but Kyley could read lips. "I'm sober."

Kyley raised his eyebrows and laughed. He drank the beer himself and then pulled out the coke. The guy seemed to mean sober as in not drinking, because his eyes lit up at the sight of the coke, and Kyley led him by the hand to the men's bathroom. They lined the coke up on the sink and snorted it off with the help of Kyley's rolled-up dollar bills; the guy seemed a novice, his nose irritated, swatting at it with hands encased in fingerless gloves.

"You some kind of goth?" Kyley asked, looking the guy up and down. They were the same height, but this kid was handsome as fuck in an authentic, small-town born-and-raised way. Kyley was handsome by way of plastic surgery, hair gel and spray tan, but this guy was so organic, so obviously open, that Kyley want to touch him, and Kyley wasn't gay.

The guy shrugged. "I'm Stan," he said, as if Kyley had asked his name.

"'Kay, Stan," Kyley said. "I'm Kyley B."

They went into the handicapped stall and Kyley stuck his fingers in Stan's mouth while he fucked him up against the wall, the stall shaking with effort. Kyley rubbed the remains of the coke into Stan's gums, feeling the prick of his teeth and the underside of his tongue. Stan had tears in his eyes when he bent back to kiss Kyley, and Kyley didn't know from what, but it was a turn on and he licked the tears from his face, tasting salt and that gross sheen of sweat you always got in the club. He wanted to take Stan home, suddenly. Tuck him into bed.

"You wanna leave?" he asked, his dick in Stan's ass and pounding.

"Yeah," Stan breathed, eyes lidded and eyelashes webbed with wetness.

Kyley slammed into him a few more times and unloaded, tugging on Stan's hair as he did so, allowing himself to look into Stan's eyes. They were the same color as the ocean, like somebody'd taken a bucket full of saltwater and poured them into his irises. Kyley sighed, letting Stan's head go and reaching down to jerk him off. Stan came like a rocket, rubbing his cock against the bathroom stall. They left Stan's semen there and Stan didn't bother to clean Kyley's out of his ass, just zipped his skinny jeans over it and followed Kyley from the bathroom like a lost puppy.

Karma was somehow even more dead as they walked out of it, or maybe it just felt that way, Kyley convinced he and Stan were the only people on Earth at that moment. He felt invincible. He felt like he was leading an army to battle and about to give a rattling battle cry. They stood outside while Kyley called for a cab, against the wall of the club, and Kyley was cold in his muscle tank while Stan seemed unaffected.

"I'm from Colorado," Stan said when he saw Kyley looking at his arms, crossed over his chest.

"Cool," Kyley said.

"Not really," Stan said. He produced a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, shielding the flames from the wind with his hands. The wind brought with it the sound of seagulls and the scent of saltwater, but maybe that was just in Kyley's head. Maybe that's just what he felt when he looked at Stan. "I'm from a small town. It sucks." He inhaled and then blew smoke. Kyley got the feeling that Stan didn't possess the self-awareness that smoking goths usually did, didn't think he was cool, wasn't full of himself, and watching him smoke was making Kyley a little hard again. Stan turned and looked at him. "You from here?"

"Yeah," Kyley said. He was breathing hard for no discernable reason. "Born and raised. A Jersey Jew."

"I'm Catholic. It sucks."

"Does everything suck? With you?"

Kyley meant it as some sort of double-entendre, but Stan just gave him sad puppy-dog eyes and nodded. Kyley sighed and tried again: "So what brings you to Seaside Heights on Christmas Eve?"

"My friend lives here. Kenny McComrick."

"I don't know any Kennys."

"He's not really into the scene. It's a temporary thing."

The cab pulled up then. Stan sat behind the driver and Kyley next to him, reaching into Stan's tight jeans to fondle his dick while the cab driver took them back to Kyley's house. This was something Kyley loved, fooling around in the back of a cab, shushing his partner when they tried to whine. But Stan was silent and pliant, staring ahead at the back of their driver's head, hitching his hips in the slightest of manners. This was even better, watching Stan's teeth dig into his plump lips, his fingers ghosting Kyley's own thighs. Kyley teased him the whole twenty-minute ride and never let him come.

Kyley lived in a quiet neighborhood. His small two-story house was largely financed by his lawyer father, but he wasn't about to tell Stan that, so he let Stan marvel at its size and its expensive, modern décor. They went to the kitchen, Stan pawing at the back of Kyley's jeans until his hands settled on his hips. Kyley slammed Stan into the stainless steel refrigerator and kissed him for the first time that night.

"Kyley," Stan said. His name sounded feminine and fragile in Stan's broken voice. Kyley sighed and shoved his tongue into Stan's mouth so that he would not speak.

The second time they fucked, up against the refrigerator with Stan's hands leaving smudges that Kyley would have to clean off in the morning, was better, longer. Stan melted under Kyley's touch as if he'd finally been given permission to. Kyley was quickly developing a narrative for Stan, didn't care if he fit into it or not: a closeted gay boy from a small town in Coloardo, surrounded by pricks and dicks of both a figurative and literal nature, turned goth from all the sexual angst bundled up inside of him. Came to the Jersey Shore to let it go, to party and fuck and do drugs, but never drink, because he was a recovering alcoholic.

"You ever fuck your friend Kenny?" Kyley asked. This time they were face to face, kissing heavily and heatedly, Stan's cock rubbing on Kyley's toned stomach.

"Yeah," Stan said. His eyes had a dreamy film over them.

So Kyley added a new facet to his narrative: Stan was in love with Kenny, who was the type of boy that Kyley was, the one that claimed to be straight and hit on all the girls but who just wanted to be held by a man at the end of the night when the drugs and the alcohol were wearing off and the sun was coming up and the world was quiet, so quiet. They weren't anywhere near that point, now, and Kyley tilted his hips, hitting Stan's prostate. Several grunts and shouts later they arrived at mutual orgasm. Kyley bent down and bit Stan's shoulder; they were both bare-chested, their shirts somewhere on the floor.

Stan clutched and clawed at Kyley through his orgasm. Unlike a girl, his nails were too short to leave marks, and he was still wearing the gloves, the fabric rough against Kyley's overheated and oversensitive skin. Kyley moaned and wrapped his arms around Stan, picking him up. Stan cinched his legs around Kyley's waist and kissed him deeply, so deeply Kyley was seeing stars, his knees weak.

"You want something to eat?" Kyley asked him when he came down. "Something more comfortable to wear?"

Stan wanted both, so Kyley leant him a pair of sweatpants and tried to order pizza, discovering everything was closed for the holidays. As a child he'd eaten Chinese food on Christmas like every other American Jew, but it was past the time for Chinese delivery, and Kyley couldn't cook. It turned out that Stan could; he made Kyley sit patiently while he scrounged around Kyley's kitchen, somehow coming up with the ingredients to make some fancy pasta dish. He whistled while he cooked. Kyley bounced his foot and checked his Instagram. Kyley tried not to stare at Stan's back, the way it dipped between his wide shoulders and his perfect ass, the way Kyley's sweatpants hung just low enough to show the beginning of that ass.

They ate over the stove, sharing spaghetti noodles and laughing. Afterwards they did more coke; Kyley checked the time and found that it was somehow three A.M., that they'd wasted four hours together, and Stan looked at him and said, very seriously, one nostril leaking, "It's the witching hour."

"What?" Kyley asked. Coke made his head foggy.

"The witching hour. It's when bad things happen at night. When the witches come out."

"Oh. Well." Kyley looked to his balcony, through the sliding glass doors. "I'll fucking murder any witches that even fucking try to come in."

They had sex again, this time on the floor of Kyley's living room, this time fully naked. Kyley tangled his fingers in Stan's hair. It made him strangely sad, how silky Stan's hair was, how it slid through his fingers. It ultimately provided no grip and so Kyley wrapped his arms around Stan's shoulders and pinned him chest-to-chest instead. Stan was so skinny, barely there, looking as if a strong breeze rolling off the beach could take him away forever. Kyley was strong, went to the gym every day, had been playing pick-up basketball at the rec center with his friends ever since he was a kid. As far as he could tell, Stan liked Kyley's body, cuppy his hands around Kyley's muscles, licking his lips and moaning.

Kyley wanted to rip this skinny kid from small-town Colorado apart. He wanted to break him. Little did he know he already had; the coal around his eyes had smudged, his nose and eyes were leaking, there was cocaine and endorphins rushing through his blood, his ass was sore, his cock full to the point of pain. Kyley was ruthless, never stopping to ask if Stan was okay, never even thinking to. All he could focus on was this kid's weird tale, this gothic Catholic he found at Karma on Christmas Eve, how this story would sound when he told Clyde and Kevin about it. They would laugh, then, but Kyley wasn't laughing now.

After a short break for a smoke and then a fourth round, they fell asleep on the floor. Or, rather, Stan fell asleep, and Kyley did more coke, staying up to stare at Stan. That was creepy; he didn't care. The guy was a transient, he'd be gone tomorrow, forever out of Kyley's life. Maybe he'd find happiness with Kenny, or some other guy, or maybe he would move to California and be out and proud forever. Maybe he'd call his mom and have a teary phone conversation on Christmas. Maybe he'd drive out to the bridge and jump off, killing himself. Kyley didn't know; Kyley pretended he didn't care.

For Kyley, the future was clear. After Stan left, he had a shower to look forward to, where he would wash the sweat and semen and smell of the night off of himself. He'd sleep until noon, he'd clean any remaining trace of Stan from the apartment, he'd go to the gym that was open every day of the year even though it was worse than his usual one, which closed for the holidays. He'd text his friends who wouldn't text back, busy with their family and girlfriends. In the grander scheme of things, he'd get over this phase, find a nice girl and settle down. Go to school, work at his dad's law firm until his father turned old and fallible, at which point Kyley would be able to take over. At some point he'd start going by Kyle, start telling people his last name.

He would not tell Stan his last name. He would not ask Stan for his. They were both used to keeping things to themselves, Kyley thought; this should be no different.

Kyley blamed the moment of clarity on the coke. The moment of weakness, too. He brushed Stan's hair from his forehead, wondered if he dyed it black or if this was his natural color. Something about him told Kyley that this was his natural color, the same thing that allowed him to discern Stan's story so easily, the same thing that had hit him like a lightning bolt when he'd seen Stan at Karma. Though he had known Stan for less than twelve hours, and though he knew he would never see Stan again, Kyley felt he knew Stan better than even his oldest friends. Felt that Stan had the potential to know Kyley B—nay, Kyle Broflovski—just as well.  
Smoking a cigarette with his arms crossed over his balcony as the sun rose and watching Stan leave, Kyley B told himself to stop being so ridiculous. Nobody found love on the bathroom floor of a club among crusty condoms and used syringes, or saw them across the dance floor, or fucked them four times hopped on coke before learning their last name or their town of origin. Nobody met their soulmate in Seaside Heights.


End file.
